A spiders’ bacchanal down here
Eight-legged thespians skirting about
across the faux wood of my desk and underfoot on the beige mahalo
These onyx-backed beasts don’t give me the wicked respect I crave
Rather the opposite, they mock my rage
They rappel down sateen webs with the grace of silken ballerinas,
while I clumsily produce vague sand traps like a common ant
The warm April sun is out today
It mocks me too
The light pushes in, I do not see it
I do not want it to touch me
The basement is winter cold and autumn damp
With every bulb powered, it remains oppressive
My excuse for non-producing spinnerets
Spiders are flippant and insensitive creatures
an abundance of legs, but they do not help me walk
a treasure trove of eyes, yet my vision is unclear
They do not direct words
They do not produce art
They do not manage feelings
Am I a thespian like my spiders
Acting out in moments of blank banality–no better than a two-legged starlet with a bug up her ass

I must curtail my ‘creative passions’
No reliance on fake scuttling muses
A maturation must come with webs of fire
or they are out-of-control things, to be snuffed out
ripped apart for catching bad karma
I sometimes play the fool
I sometimes age wisely
Whenever my son chastises me for behaving like a child,
I sometimes behave like an adult